Misdiagnoses
by Haelia
Summary: Or, "Five Times John Misdiagnosed Sherlock, and One Time He Didn't." In which the author relentlessly humiliates John. No spoilers. Rating for possible language, and detailed references to disordered eating.
1. Anorexia Nervosa

**A/N: I do not own Sherlock, obviously. Also, please feel free to review, as I enjoy constructive criticism and shameless ego-stroking. As a side note, I'm taking requests for future 'misdiagnoses'.**

1. Anorexia Nervosa

"Sherlock." A pause, then a second attempt. "Sher_lock_."

An annoyed growl. "What." Not a question, not even really a response; a statement. A testament to how disruptive the calling of his name was to his concentration.

"Sherlock." Pure patience.

"What!" Finally, the detective turned away from the microscope to look at his flatmate, who was calmly – irritatingly – calling his name over and over from the armchair less than ten feet away. "What!" he repeated, when John did not answer quickly enough.

John said nothing further, only glanced meaningfully at the bowl of pasta sitting at Sherlock's elbow, untouched.

The world's only consulting detective took one look at the bowl, and immediately deleted John's concern. "I'm working," he snapped testily.

"It's probably cold by now…"

"All the more reason not to eat it."

"It's been _five days_."

"Incorrect." This was not the first time Sherlock had lied, or misrepresented the facts, when it came to his eating habits.

And John was getting worried. Legitimately worried, enough so that he was starting to draw a rather terrifying conclusion.

* * *

For the duration of the current case, John observed his friend carefully. He started looking for 'the rules'. In most cases of disordered eating, there are rules and guidelines by which the patient conducts their eating habits. Many times, it has to do with a certain number of calories consumed, forbidden foods, or times and places when eating is strictly prohibited. Sometimes it is even necessary to keep from eating in front of certain people, or outside of the house at all. And so John Watson watched. He discovered, unsurprisingly, that Sherlock had his own set of rules.

First – he did not eat anything that had fallen onto the floor. Ever. No exceptions. Even if it was still in a wrapper or container.

Second – he did not eat anything that was not expressly his. If John offered him half of his sandwich out of sympathy when Sherlock's own meal had gone cold, he refused it unwaveringly. Common items in the kitchen such as a box of doughnuts, or some tartlets that Mrs. Hudson brought up, seemed to be forbidden.

Third – toast seemed to be a go-to. That, and tea. These two things Sherlock subsisted upon when he was working, and even then, only as necessary.

Fourth – coffee was exempt. This he consumed with alacrity and abandon. Very curious.

Fifth – talking about eating, being asked to eat, being presented with food, or being harassed in any way regarding his eating habits, seemed to make him tense and irritable for several hours at a time.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

"Mm. John."

Thinking Time. Better to interrupt Sherlock during Thinking Time than Microscope Time. And as Sherlock was now lying on the couch with two nicotine patches on his arm, his hands folded in the prayer pose, eyes closed – it was clearly Thinking Time. John dared interrupt him. Sherlock did not deign to open even one eye. The doctor pressed on anyway.

"It's been a week."

Sherlock seemed to know what this was about straightaway. "Had toast this morning."

"And?"

"Tea."

John sighed.

"Digestion slows me down. We've covered this."

Indeed. John gave up and trudged off to bed.

* * *

The next morning, John rolled out of bed painfully. He'd slept poorly the night before, having gone to bed dissatisfied and anxious, and was now being rewarded with a sleep-deprivation headache and a crick in his neck. This, he decided, was reason enough to be finally, absolutely done with Sherlock's antics. If he had to strap him down and put a feeding tube down his throat, that man was going to face up to his problem and eat something. And then get checked into rehab.

These thoughts burned in John's mind as he descended the stairs, fists clenched at his sides as he braced himself for the fight that was about to ensue. He was already composing a speech in his head when his feet hit the bottom landing. "Sherlock, this is it, this is the last straw, you and I are going to sit down and –"

He stopped midsentence, and nearly fell over, as he caught sight of Sherlock.

Sitting at the table.

Surrounded by a plethora of messy dishes.

Halfway through a(nother) cheese Danish.

Binge?

Misdiagnosis?

John reeled.

"Good morning!" Sherlock chimed as he finally noticed his flatmate swaying at the bottom of the stairs. He was obviously taking a great deal of pleasure from seeing his friend so taken aback. "Started without you. Famished. Eggs?"

"What…" The doctor scratched at his head, not sure whether to be relieved or twice as worried as he'd been before. "Digestion slows you down…?" he floundered.

"Correct. Case is closed. Solved it last night. The sister did it. Unexpected, no? Fried, scrambled, or poached? I made all three."

"But…"

"Yes, yes, I know what you thought, and you thought _wrong_. I couldn't very well go on being me if I were to do something self-destructive like starve. On purpose." He shook his head. He wasn't keen on explaining himself most of the time, but now with the case out of the way and with John looking like he was ready to faint, well… No harm in it. Just this once. "I also know what you're thinking now, and I can tell you that it is also wrong. Do you remember what I told you before, about seeing and observing?"

"Yes…"

"Well, there is such a thing as 'observing' too much. And that is called _imagining_."

* * *

**DISCLAIMER. If you ever suspect that anyone close to you has an eating disorder, seek professional help immediately. We all know that everything is well with the World's Only Consulting Detective, but you can't always be so sure in real life. Safe is better than sorry.**


	2. The Common Cold

2. The Common Cold

It was Sherlock's ragged breathing that woke him from the stupor he'd fallen into in front of _Britain's Got Talent_, though he didn't know it right away. John shook himself into full wakefulness and tried to identify the sound that had woken him, casting about the room until his eyes finally landed on Sherlock. Sherlock, who was lying fast asleep on the couch, with one arm thrown up over his eyes. It was a rare sight – the World's Only Consulting Detective didn't sleep very often, or for very long, and it was usually when John had already retired for the night. So he couldn't help staring for a moment in disbelief, and that was when he heard it.

It was a horrid sound, like a death rattle. It took John a moment to come to the conclusion that the sound was actually emanating from Sherlock. Then it took him another minute to decide that it definitely wasn't snoring, but rather the very breath rasping through his lungs. They had had a conversation not a week ago that consisted of the detective assuring him, "I _never_ get sick." Well, now John was beginning to doubt that hypothesis.

Concerned both personally and professionally, John roused himself from his armchair and crossed over to where Sherlock lay, perching himself on the edge of the sofa beside the spare frame of the detective. He sat there for another moment, once more making absolutely certain that he heard what he thought he heard – he was loathe to wake him if he was wrong. Yes. Yes, he was certain. Sherlock was sick. Very sick, by the sounds of his wheezing.

Gently, John shook him. "Sherlock," he said softly. "Wake up."

The sleeping detective gave a great, rasping sigh, turning his head away from the sound of John's voice. He looked as though he might fall back asleep, but then he suddenly sat bolt upright. "Fifteen-point-seven-five-four!" he cried. Then his wide eyes took in the room, and John's face, and he relaxed. "Oh. I dozed off."

John frowned. Fever dream? He pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead.

Of course, Sherlock jerked away immediately, alarm evident on his pale features. "What on earth are you doing?" he demanded. He looked as if he were truly, honestly clueless of John's intentions.

_Should have expected this_, thought John unhappily. Sherlock always did seem to put physical health second to his work. Well, everything was second to his work, really. "There's no use denying it, Sherlock, I know you're ill. So let's skip the theatrics, shall we, and let me help you."

The detective frowned. "I _never_ get sick," he said, reminiscent of the conversation they'd had last week.

John sighed. "Yes, I've heard, but I've also heard the way your breathing sounds, and a healthy person's lungs don't generally make that noise." Once more, he pressed his hand to Sherlock's face, and the detective did not flinch away, to his great relief. "Hm," he murmured. "No fever then. Well, with luck, we've caught it early, and you'll be back to your old self in no time."

"I'm not sick," Sherlock insisted.

"Right," John pretended to humour him, and went on about the business of assessing Sherlock's health.

Strangely, Sherlock was completely compliant with the examination. He did not protest, or whine, or sigh; instead, he simply sat there whilst John scrutinised, poked, inspected, listened, and otherwise probed him. He scowled, but that was the most venom he mustered in the doctor's general direction. It was almost as though he were trying to prove a point – and that did occur to John, but not before something else crossed the doctor's mind: _He's going along with this because he feels _that_ wretched. Good! Maybe from now on he'll think twice about being so reckless all the time._

"Well, judging by your breath sounds and the obvious sinus pressure, you've got yourself a nasty cold," John concluded when he was finally finished. He pushed a bottle of over-the-counter cold medicine into Sherlock's hand and bagged his torture devices. "Rest, and a few of these little magic pills, and you'll be fine. Try to take it easy for a couple days, eh?"

"Not sick," Sherlock stated again, but this time John ignored him and headed to bed.

Six days later, Sherlock's symptoms had not subsided. John was becoming increasingly agitated by his condition, but as it did not seem to be getting worse, he couldn't very well tie him to his bed and force him to stay away from Scotland Yard. Sherlock had agreed to 'take it easy' for two full days, and then after that it was back to solving crime. He was still sniffly and wheezy and coughed a lot, not to mention the sudden, frequent sneezing fits. But there was no fever to speak of, no body aches, no real serious symptoms at all. John accompanied Sherlock on his case assignments, and watched him carefully; aside from the persistent and ever-present symptoms of congestion, he seemed at the top of his game.

They were standing over a body when he finally got the answer to _What in the hell is wrong with Sherlock Holmes?_ Lestrade was explaining the finer details of a homicide when Sherlock suddenly turned away from the crime scene, sneezing violently and repeatedly into the sleeve of his coat.

John frowned, but Lestrade just shrugged. "That hay fever still giving you trouble?" the D.I. asked casually.

Sherlock nodded. "The pollen count has been atrocious this last week."

The doctor looked from one man to the other and back again, his expression frozen in a mask of shock. "_Allergies_?" he cried, staring incredulously at Sherlock. "All this time, you've been suffering from _allergies_? Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"You never asked." He sniffled. "I told you I wasn't sick."


	3. Gunshot Wound

3. Gunshot Wound

It was three o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday and John Watson was sound asleep. Or, he was, until a very loud crash from downstairs jolted him awake. He bolted out of bed, suddenly very much alert, and immediately began to grope for the gun he kept in his bedside table. After living with Sherlock for this long, he had resigned himself to the idea that the day would eventually come when one of the detective's many enemies would break into their flat searching for him. To kill, maim, or otherwise harm him. So, John Watson was prepared. He grabbed the loaded gun and lurched down the stairs, ready to fend off whatever enemies had come to threaten them.

Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, he flicked on the light and quickly assessed the situation. Sherlock was on the floor. A side table was overturned. The door was open. The enemy – whoever it had been – had fled. The threat was gone. He went to the door and poked his head outside. The hall was empty. Satisfied that there was no one in the flat, John shut the door and shoved his gun into his dressing gown pocket before hurrying to Sherlock's side.

"Tripped over the side table," Sherlock stated, apparently reeling. His eyes struggled to focus on John's face. "Who shoved it into the middle of the walkway in the first place…?"

"Nevermind that. Where are you hurt?" There was blood all over his shirtfront.

"What? I'm not…" Sherlock returned, glancing down at his clothes. Oh yes, the stain. "Pasta sauce."

Delirious, obviously. It was worse than he had thought. John reached forward and started to tear open Sherlock's shirt, sending the buttons flying.

"What on earth are you doing!" Sherlock exclaimed, trying to pry John's hands away. "I'm not bleeding!"

"Oh, cut it out, Sherlock!" John shouted back. "Lie back before you hurt yourself!" He straddled the struggling detective bodily and finished opening his shirt, his fingers working quickly. His eyes searched frantically for the wound, but found only unbroken, pale flesh. Perfectly intact. Confusion set in.

Defeated, Sherlock let himself fall back against the floor with a thump. He glared crossly at the ceiling. "Pasta sauce," he repeated. "Finished the case, stopped for supper."

"It's the middle of the night," John replied in bewilderment, still staring down at Sherlock from his perch literally atop him.

"Finished the case – _at two in the morning_."

"There was a crash!"

"I tripped over the end table that someone placed in the walkway!"

"You never trip!" John was grasping at straws now.

"I'm not perfect!" Several long moments of silence passed. Embarrassed silence, on both their parts. "John?"

"Yes."

"It's dark, you've ripped off my shirt, and now you're straddling me. You may wish to remove yourself before someone else comes to investigate the commotion."


	4. Respiratory Distress

**A/N: Wowza! Thanks for the reviews, and all the favourites/alerts! Considering I just started writing fanfiction, um, **_**yesterday**_**, it was a really pleasant surprise! Here's Part 4! As a side note, I am well aware that respiratory distress is technically a symptom and not really a diagnosis. We'll just say I use the title word 'misdiagnoses' loosely, how about that? Please enjoy!**

4. Respiratory distress

As he returned home from an errand one Sunday afternoon, John had a feeling that something was amiss. It wasn't a distinct impression, just that strange malaise creeping up his spine that said _Something is not quite right here_. He frowned, hoping his instincts were incorrect, and slotted his key into the lock, hefting the shopping bags over the threshold as he stepped into the flat he shared with Sherlock.

The place was deadly silent for a moment; a sharp contrast to the state it had been when John had left. It had only been a few hours – surely Sherlock had not relaxed in his flurry of research or cracked the case in that span of time? He would have sent John a message if he had, would have texted some insensate babble consisting of _**Jacket. Custom purple cotton. Left on Twelfth Avenue. **_or something like that. But there was nothing. Nothing, until the moment finally crawled by and John heard the distinct sound of someone trying – and failing – to suck in a frantic breath. "Sherlock?" he called, the rising panic evident in his voice as he abandoned the shopping and strode swiftly into the living room.

He spotted Sherlock instantly. The man was lying on his back on the floor, but he quickly struggled onto all fours as John entered. John, whose senses were sharpened by military training and battlefield experience, took in the scene with rapid ease. The window was open; the curtain and its rod were hanging half off the hardware above the window; there was a stepladder beside that; and there on the floor, the muscles in his neck straining as he struggled to breathe, was Sherlock Holmes.

John could not explain the window or the stepladder at all, but he could see that Sherlock was in obvious trouble. Furthermore, the distraught detective was trying to stand up, which was clearly not a wise idea. John crossed the room in two more steps and sank to his knees beside him, pulling Sherlock back down onto the floor. The more he strained himself, the worse his breathing would get, as his body burned valuable oxygen in the attempt to move. Sherlock seemed to realise this at the same moment, his eyes losing focus as dizziness swept over him. He allowed himself to be pulled down onto the floor.

He was trying to speak. His mouth was moving but nothing was coming out.

"Don't talk," John commanded. The doctor threw himself toward the sofa, grabbing for the throw pillow to stick under Sherlock's head and shoulders – standing up was too much strain on his patient's body, yes; but lying completely prostrate would restrict blood flow as well as possibly further impede his breathing.

Sherlock was shaking his head. Obviously resisting John's efforts, nothing unusual there.

It was considerably easier to care for the stricken detective in this state than in previous instances of injury or illness, mainly because he couldn't speak or hardly move. John realised this with some amount of guilt, but quickly moved on. He needed to figure out what was causing Sherlock's breathing difficulties, but he also suspected he needed an ambulance. He examined his charge critically. Sherlock's lips were looking decidedly colourless, and the tendons in his neck were clearly visible as his entire upper body engaged in the effort to draw breath. Sweat had broken out on his face in just the last few moments. John took out his phone and started to dial.

And was surprised when Sherlock knocked it out of his hand.

"The hell are you doing!" John demanded angrily. He tried to scramble for the phone, but Sherlock again stayed him with a surprisingly strong grip on his wrist.

"No," Sherlock gasped, and then held up a finger to indicate, _Just a moment_.

"Sherlock!" John rumbled.

Finally, _finally_, Sherlock was able to draw enough breath to speak. "Fell," he said haltingly. "Just… knocked the… breath out of me…"

John crumpled a little bit as his pulse began its slow descent from the stratosphere. "Oh for…" he muttered. He pulled the pillow out from under his friend and straightened him out full on his back, grabbing the front of his belt. He lifted, raising the detective's hips slightly off the ground to arch his back, stretching the shocked muscles through his ribcage and diaphragm, allowing him to draw breath more easily.

Sherlock's eyes went wide as at last he took a nearly full breath. "How did you do that!" he exclaimed as John let go his belt and rocked back on his heels.

"Old trick," said John, bitterly. He watched darkly as Sherlock's breathing started to return to normal with each hoarse inhalation. The colour returned to his flatmate's face and soon the sheen of sweat disappeared as well. When at last he observed Sherlock sit up, he asked the obvious question: "What happened?"

"I fell," Sherlock repeated with obvious irritation at the very idea. He rubbed the back of his head and nodded at the ladder. "I was testing a hypothesis, and lost my footing on a faulty rung."

John was certain he didn't want to know what the hypothesis was. "I thought you were in respiratory distress," he said sheepishly.

Sherlock smirked. "Well, I was."

"I mean, real respiratory distress. I thought there was something _wrong_ with you." He paused, peering at Sherlock closely. "Although in truth, I think there very well may be something wrong with you…"

"Really? What?" Sherlock appeared piqued, albeit slightly alarmed.

"You're clumsy."

It would remain a secret between the two of them.


	5. Poison Ivy Reaction

5. Poison Ivy Reaction

"No! Don't open the door! I _mean_ it, John!"

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous! Let me in!" John shifted his weight outside the door to their flat, caught in a shouting match with Sherlock in which his flatmate would not allow him inside. "I have a key, you know…"

"Wait!" cried Sherlock sharply. "Just wait!"

It was hard to imagine what Sherlock was so worked up about. John could only assume he'd come home whilst Sherlock was in the middle of doing something embarrassing. Was he with a lover? John's stomach churned for a moment at that, and then he laughed aloud. Sherlock? A lover? Please! The man had to be reminded to eat ninety-nine percent of the time, how could he ever be depended upon to maintain a proper relationship?

Mrs. Hudson bustled up behind John, ever the nosy neighbour. "What's all this shouting, then?" she asked in her motherly way. "Anything the matter?"

Frowning, John shook his head. "Oh, Sherlock's just dancing around the flat naked, and won't let me in until he's dressed."

Mrs. Hudson looked a little surprised for a moment, but she grinned. "Well, that explains all the noise. I thought he must have been hopping about up there." She winked, and reluctantly headed back down the stairs.

The door to 221B snapped open. "I was not dancing!" Sherlock clarified tersely, but if Mrs. Hudson heard him, she didn't give any indication. The detective stared at the stairwell until he heard the landlady's door close. Then he directed his fiery gaze at John. "You were incapable of quietly waiting for five seconds?"

"It's been ten minutes," John complained, hefting the shopping bags in Sherlock's general direction, as if to show him, _Hey, these are heavy, you know._ He pushed past his flatmate and started unloading the bags onto whatever available surface he ran into first. "I don't know why you need calamine lotion and formaldehyde… And you know what, I'm not sure I want to know. Here. Hopefully the morgue won't notice it missing. I went and got some milk, too, and the tea – what's wrong with you?"

Sherlock had snatched the tube of calamine lotion and was holding it between his teeth as he scratched furiously at his left arm. He did not respond, apparently too engaged in this task.

John took the opportunity to grab Sherlock's hand, pushing aside his sleeve to inspect the afflicted arm. There was an angry, weepy, red rash on the length of his forearm. It was hot to the touch. "Did you have a tumble in some poison ivy?" John questioned, and really he was joking, but Sherlock responded a little too quickly with –

"Yes."

Taking the tube from between his flatmate's teeth, John squeezed a generous line out onto Sherlock's skin. "Does this have anything to do with why you wouldn't let me in?" he asked, suspicion evident on his face.

"No," Sherlock said defiantly. He snatched his arm away. "Don't touch it!" He rubbed the lotion into the rash, failing to stifle a satisfied groan as the cooling effect of the calamine soothed the itch.

"Don't scratch it," John ordered with a disapproving shake of his head. "You'll only spread it, or cause an infection."

"Mh," said Sherlock, and disappeared to wash the pink calamine cream off of his fingers.

John went on with his unloading of the groceries and various Sherlock-esque odds and ends, and then rapped on the bathroom door with his knuckles. He could hear the water still running. "I'm off to work," he said through the door. "Will you be alright?"

"Fine, fine," called Sherlock. John could just envision him waving a hand dismissively.

John went to work.

* * *

Seven hours later, he came home to a very different situation. He could hear Sherlock mumbling in what sounded a most irritated fashion, punctuated occasionally by a pathetic whimper. John shed his coat, sighing as he wondered what the detective could possibly be working on now that was causing him such distress. It wasn't uncommon for Sherlock to talk to himself whilst working on a case – and there were many a time when it was the most unhappy sort of talking. John ignored it for the time being and headed for the kitchen, intent upon a cup of tea and a sit.

He'd only just prepared the tea when Sherlock appeared in the threshold, shirtless, scratching furiously at his chest and wearing the worst look of discomfort John had ever seen on his face.

"Good lord!" cried the doctor, stepping closer. "Just how much poison ivy did you _roll_ in?" His entire chest was covered in a blistery rash. For that matter, so was his stomach. And shoulders. Back. Arms. Neck. "Were you _naked_ when you went for a stroll in the woods?"

Sherlock had been intent upon suffering through this alone and in silence, but he had reached his breaking point. "This is not poison ivy," he admitted finally.

John mentally flipped through a dozen different diseases and ailments that could produce a reaction like this. When he reached out to touch Sherlock's face, checking for fever, it finally clicked.

"Are you serious." John was incredulous. "How did you manage to catch _chicken pox_? And is there a reason you kept it from me?"

"It's contagious!"

"I've had it already, like a normal person!"

"How was I to know?"

"Common sense?"

"Just make it stop, John! Make it stop!"

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so that one technically wasn't John's fault, but I really wanted to do chicken pox and couldn't think how else to include it. Also it's a bit OOC, I'm sure, because Sherlock would have found some crazy obscure way to know that John had already had chicken pox. And, for those curious, Sherlock was naked and 'hopping about' the flat because he was trying to discover just how much of his body was covered in the rash. **


	6. The Time John Was Right

John walked in hungry and tired from a long shift at the hospital. Truth be told, he was a little grumpy, too. Today had been his day off, originally, but then some scheduling conflicts resulted in his having to work a double shift to cover the gaps. Normally he mightn't have minded, but it had been a trying week.

He caught sight of Sherlock as he hung up his coat. The detective was lying on the couch, as usual, curled over onto his side. He didn't make much noise as John walked in, but this was not out of the ordinary. If the apocalypse should happen during Thinking Time, there was every chance in the world Sherlock would miss it entirely.

"Evening," John said, breaking the silence. He flicked on a light and dropped his bag next to the coatrack, kicking off his boots. It was then that he really saw Sherlock, and the sight of him caused John's breath to catch in his throat.

Rather than casually curled up on the couch, Sherlock rather appeared to be _huddled_ into himself on the cushions, one hand stiffly clamped at his midsection. His face was grey, and his gaze was glassy. John could tell from one glance that the detective's breathing was shallow and uneven. All of this might have added up to panic in his mind. Except for the misdiagnoses.

Over the last twelve months, John had found himself utterly humiliated as a doctor, inventing all sorts of ailments that might have been affecting his flatmate (ailments that could have and probably should have been affecting him, if only Sherlock weren't so damn invincible), only to be proven wrong each and every time. Not only wrong, but horribly and embarrassingly wrong! Sherlock referred to it as 'overworrying' or (even less flattering) 'mother-henning' and had developed a habit of teasing John about it whenever he reacted to a new 'symptom'. And thus, the tired and irritable Doctor Watson did not jump immediately upon the first conclusion that his well-educated brain supplied. Instead, he glared at the shivering form of his friend, and rolled his eyes.

"Don't tell me," he started in, wagging a finger at Sherlock. "Hay fever again?"

Sherlock roused himself ever so slightly. "John…"

"Oh no – just tired, is that all?"

"John…"

"I know! An experiment, is that it?"

"John." This time, Sherlock's voice was precariously close to a whine, and it served to get the doctor's attention. He pounced upon the momentary silence. "I seem to be rather unwell."

John was taken aback. For a moment he didn't react, just stood there blinking. Then it all finally added up properly. His flatmate's ashen complexion, the stiff way he held himself, the sheen of sweat on his brow, his rapid breathing – for once, it did appear that Sherlock was very, very ill. John coloured, embarrassed, and grabbed up his bag before crossing the room to where his flatmate lay.

"You could have called!" the doctor scolded, misdirecting his frustration at the detective.

Sherlock smiled thinly. "Phone's upstairs…"

"Idiot," mumbled John. He began an initial examination, expert fingers detecting fever and a pulse far too rapid for a healthy body. "What are your symptoms?"

"Pain…" moaned Sherlock.

"Well, obviously!" John replied with agitation. "What else? Vomiting?"

Sherlock nodded. "Febrile chills, loss of appetite…" He clenched his teeth, apparently unable to go on.

John picked up the thread. "Difficulty breathing?" A head shake indicating _no_ to this, but Sherlock was no longer speaking, unable to form sentences anymore. John's eyes traveled down to where Sherlock's hand was clenched protectively over his stomach. "How is your pain?" he asked, helping the incapacitated detective to turn a little onto his back.

"Incredible," Sherlock breathed out through clenched teeth.

"Numbers, Sherlock!" John snapped, prying his flatmate's pale, thin hand away from his abdomen. "On a scale of one to ten, like a normal person."

"Fifteen."

John rolled his eyes again. He had a good idea of his diagnosis already, but he had to be certain. "I'm going to palpate your abdomen, Sherlock. It will likely hurt; just try to breathe." Without waiting for a response, John braced himself for the inevitable pain he was about to cause his friend, and gingerly pressed his fingers into the lower right quadrant of Sherlock's abdomen. In the moment before the detective's entire body tensed, he felt the swollen mass beneath his fingertips.

"Thirty-two!" gasped Sherlock, as though this were some sort of sick game of 'uncle' and a higher number would end it. "Stop, ah – thirty-two!"

"Appendicitis," John announced swiftly, retracting his hands. "Certainly not worth a thirty-two, but you'll need emergency surgery before your appendix ruptures." This was one of the few times it would actually be a good thing that Sherlock hardly ever ate. John couldn't hide a smug little smirk as he dialled for an ambulance. So it seemed that all his 'mother-henning' was useful once in a while! Perhaps next time Sherlock would not be so quick to tease him about his instinctual overworrying.

"Stop smiling," Sherlock commanded, sucking down overly controlled breaths through his teeth.

At this, John had to grin. "I will, if you make me a promise."

"What!"

"Call me the next time you have an internal organ about to burst."


End file.
